


She of Iron-Wood

by cincoflex



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thor Movies, F/M, References to Norse Mythology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post-Thor; how did Loki survive his fall from the bifrost, and who is Angrboða?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The She of Iron-Wood

Angrboða watched him through her diamond mirror, caught by his unexpected grace. 

She had been spying on Asgard; a cautionary habit and source of amusement for her. To her mind the majority of Odin’s folk were arrogant and overbearing; clumsy as bears if not as powerful. She’d dealt with the men of Asgard before, and through the centuries they of a kind—gods yes, but still brutish at times, and lacking reason when moved to battle.

But this one . . . something about his straight stance and mocking smile caught her eye, and Angrboða felt a stirring within her. This son of the Allfather must have been born in shadow, she decided. He lacked the sunny glint of gold in his hair, and although he smiled, his eyes never did, and he stood apart much of the time.

The mirror did not bring her voices, so for a long time he had no name, and she called him the Shadow. It seemed to fit; he was always just behind the golden son, often forgotten and quiet. The only person who gave him any consideration was the Allfather’s wife Frigga—She who is Beloved. Angrboða respected her, grudgingly; the daughter of Fjörgynn was worthy by lineage and power. It was clear that the Allfather’s wife favored this dark child, and shared with him her knowledge of magic. He seemed to be an apt pupil, Angrboða noted with interest.

Intrigued, she sent birds to spy, and when they returned they brought her a name: Loki.

She continued to watch, seeing him grow from a colt-legged young one to a tall youth, straight as an ash spear. Angrboða saw that he chose to clothe himself in green, which was interesting. The Allfather himself favored gold and red; colors associated with victorious battle and treasure, and the golden son did as well, beaming brightly with it. But Loki had chosen green, a shade that had more complicated connections. Green meant fertility and abundance, yes, but it was also the color of sickness and decay. There were touches of gold to his wardrobe, enough to mark him as a prince, but not nearly as much as his brother wore.

Gold did not suit him, she thought. He was born for silver, pale and cold as the moon.

As she watched, Angrboða saw Loki watching, and approved. He had a quick mind and quick tongue, and although his demeanor seemed mild, it was but a disguise, like the hilt covering a very sharp dagger. He caused friction without seeming to, and stood back to see the results, careful not to let his amusement show.

And his daring! Over time Angrboða watched the second son of Odin learn his true hrímþursar lineage, and put into motion his plan to destroy Jotunheim, deftly manipulating those around him with soft words and cold actions. And finally, when he hung wounded and defeated from the broken Bifrost, refusing to accept the Allfather’s condemnation, Angrboða nearly wept. Such boldness, such pride!

This one would be worthy.

She acted swiftly. Moving through the Iron-wood towards the west, Angrboða flew her twisted wood chariot high across the skies, letting her giant ravens pull her upwards with their huge wings, and when she reached the edge of the Bifrost Angrboða cloaked herself in smoke, keeping Heimdahl’s vision from seeing her. It took a while to find the shadow son, drifting as he was, his moss cloak wrapping around him in shroud folds. His eyes were closed and he seemed dead but she knew better.

Loki, son of Laufey, was a child of rock and stone and would survive the cold of space.

Angrboða reached up for him, catching him by an ankle and pulled him into the chariot. A simple command to her ravens and they turned, wheeling the smoke-draped dark chariot back to Iron-Wood as she spun a net of fine spider-silk and wrapped her treasure within it.

*** *** ***

It would take a while for him to recover from the cold, but she was patient, and there were other matters to attend to. Angrboða knew the Allfather would search at his wife’s bidding; that even Loki’s crimes would not, could not break his bond to Frigga and more distantly to the rest of the family.

But the Allfather would not come here, to the Iron-Wood. Perhaps the golden son might, but it would be easy to turn his mind and thoughts to another direction if it came to that. For the moment, Angrboða contented herself with having her badger servants clean the dark hall as she readied a welcoming feast for her guest.

The table held much and enchantments kept it fresh. Angrboða took care in dressing herself, choosing grey silk with amber embroidery to honor the Iron-Wood around her. As she prepared herself she thought about how best to proceed. The very air of the hall was tinted with destiny, a dark perfume that made her hum with pleasure as she rose from her chambers and made her way to where the princeling lay cold and still on the fur-draped pallet with only the light of the fireplace by which to see.

His pallor pleased Angrboða, and she spent time studying his features in the dim light, noting that even when unconscious his form stayed true to that of his adopted family. Curious, she conjured a simple granite stone and pressed it to his wrist. The flare where it touched instantly became hrímþursar—Ice Giant. It faded again when she made the stone vanish, and Angrboða nodded to herself.

She sat at the foot of the pallet, waiting and watching, contenting herself with gazing upon him until he began to stir. It was a slow wakening, and Angrboða appreciated his caution; given the events of the recent past, he had much to worry about, clearly. Still, when his gaze focused and found her, she stayed still, letting him wonder and push himself up on one elbow.

“Lady,” he murmured, confused but polite. Angrboða did not reply, drawing out the moment to the edge of discomfort before gently nodding.

“Where am I?” came the next question. She considered this and gave him a direct stare, making sure he held her gaze.

“You are with me, in a safe haven,” Angrboða told him. “Come, you need sustenance.” Not giving him a chance to say more, she rose and looked over her shoulder, aware that the firelight put her to good advantage. From what she’d seen of the shadow son, his sense of caution and courtesy would be easy to use against him here at the start.

He stood cautiously and followed her lead. Angrboða led the way to the dark hall, pleased that the badgers had done a fine job. Spiderwebs glittered with candle-drops and the heavy wooden furnishings gleamed. She took a seat at the head of the table and motioned to her side, to the only other chair. When Loki took it, Angrboða hid her smile.

“Lady, I am grateful for your hospitality, but who are you and where are we?” he asked, looking more confident now.

“We are in a wood obscured from Heimdahl’s gaze by my glamour,” Angrboða murmured, “and I am _queen_ here, Prince Loki Laufeyson of Asgard.”

His eyes widened and she watched him re-assess his situation. It was amusing how transparent his thoughts were as he tried to figure out which queen she must be, and coming up with no name that fit his knowledge. Finally he went for charm. “Forgive me but even as you know who I am, I know you _not,_ your majesty.”

Angrboða smiled. She picked up the silver pitcher and filled the two drinking horns with dark wine, drawing out the action before speaking in a soft voice. “In time you shall know me very well, oh maker of mischief. I am called by many names, but the most used is She Who Brings Grief.”

She waited to see if that brought any recognition to his expression and was gratified when it did. Loki blinked and frowned; clearly what he has been told did not match what he saw before him, and that played well into her favor. “But you are not . . .”

“ _Not_ a hideous troll-wife, heavy as a boulder and covered with moss? No, I am not, little hrímþursar prince,” Angrboða murmured in amusement. She passed one drinking horn to him and took her own, lifting it in a toast. “Yet _another_ lie told to you. Drink; the wine is warming.”

She noticed he didn’t drink until she had. Cautious, and rightly so, Angrboða thought, and smiled. The wine was strong; a rich red made all the darker by blackcurrant and plum. Loki tried not to cough.

Endearing.

Angrboða set her horn down and looked at him. “You have been told tales all your life to keep you from wandering, to keep you safe. Some of those tales are true, but some have been lies, Princeling. Now that you know your lineage, and that Odin will always choose your brother over you, isn’t it time to learn what _else_ there is to know?”

He flinched. Angrboða knew her words pressed the wounds on his heart yet Loki, this fallen son, had the strength to deal with them. It took a moment for him to regain his composure, but when he looked at her, Angrboða nodded, and smiled.

“Why did you save me?”

“That is a very good question, son of stone. I saved you because prophecy said I should, and I am not one to defy that which has been decreed. But,” she added, “I have been watching you for a long time, so even if it was not destiny for us to meet, I would have arranged it even so. You are a beautiful creature in this form or your other. I appreciate beauty.”

Loki blushed. This was a delightful reaction and Angrboða again let the moment stretch out as she noted the high color across his cheekbones. He was uncomfortable but not completely at a loss since he smiled. “Forgive me; I am not used to _receiving_ flattery.”

“I know,” Angrboða murmured. “Silver-tongued one. Come, eat and we will talk more afterwards.”

His manners were excellent, and for a while they dined in silence. Angrboða kept her expression mild to put Loki at ease, but he remained slightly guarded even after more wine. When the meal was over, she rose and moved to the two chairs near the great fireplace at the far end of the hall. The flames had died down to a hellish red glow, leaving just enough light to see by, and Angrboða seated herself, waving her guest to the other chair. He took it, settling in with a hint of impatience.

“The hour grows late and I know you need rest,” she told him. “But first I want you to see this.”

Angrboða brought her hands up and drew them apart, allowing the gap between them to bring forth the stone. It caught the gleam of the firelight and sent sparkles across the shadow son’s face, speckling him with starpoints.

Oh she had his attention now, all his impatience gone as he studied the gem, curiosity and covertness clear on his thin face. “What is it?”

“It is called the Singasteinn, young prince, and holds tremendous magic,” Angrboða told him quietly. “Some say it is the egg of a mermaid. Others say it is mother of the seas.” Between her palms the heavy pearl gleamed like a small moon, and a faint hum sang in the air; voices chanting like waves rolling onto a beach.

“It’s . . .” words failed he who had never been at a loss for them, and Angrboða nearly chuckled at that. The Singasteinn was the prize of her collection, nearly on par with Brisingamen in terms of beauty, but beyond that much more. Freya’s necklace held no magic; the Singasteinn however . . .

“This gem holds the power to heal wounds and keep its owner alive in water, air or void, little prince. The wielder may move among the stars in the sky or across any strange world, or even among the monsters of any sea with ease. Those who have magic may do these things too of course, but only after centuries of practice. With this stone, all that is provided.”

Reluctantly Loki pulled his gaze from the enchanting stone and looked over the top of it, at her. Angrboða spoke again. “I will not _give_ it to you, Loki, Laufeyson, prince of Asgard. But I will trade it in a very specific agreement. A barter, if you will.”

He smiled then, dimples deep, the mask she had so often seen him wear before—the sweet and unassuming expression that fooled so many. “I . . . I have nothing to trade, your majesty. As you know I am outcast from Asgard and without the treasure such a prize would require.”

“Treasure is nothing to me,” Angrboða assured him. “I have gold and jewels enough to serve my needs.”

“Ah.” This seemed to set him back, and she waited for him to work the puzzle out. He drew his brows together and pondered the matter for a few moments more before murmuring, “Service, then. A deed done, a quest undertaken?”

Angrboða smiled.

She moved her hands together and the Singasteinn disappeared, snuffed away like a candle flame. Loki blinked, and the faint spell of the moment faded, leaving the two of them in the firelight, facing each other.

“Tomorrow I will demonstrate that what I have told you is true; that the Singasteinn will keep you alive in all places. When you are satisfied that it does, then we can discuss terms. Is this agreeable?”

“What if is not?” Loki countered.

Angrboða moved like smoke, slipping from her chair to her knees, hands resting on those long thighs of his as she leaned into his face, drifting close and feeling the power of his surprise, of his quickened heart and wide pupils. Her lips hovered within a breath of his, perfumed with the fruit wine. “You are _right_ to fear me, sweet prince. Good night.”

With a soft chuckle, Angrboða rose and glided away to her bower, well-pleased.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning was stormy and gray, and the heavy trees that stood around her hall stretched their sharp limbs like black lightning towards the sky. Angrboða dined on fish bones and fresh nightshade berries while across from her Loki broke his fast with grilled herring and porridge. He looked better; more like the imperious youth she’d watched in her diamond mirror, and Angrboða was sure he’d spent the night considering ways to trick the Singasteinn from her.

The thought amused her greatly. Clearly Frigga had not consulted the Verðandi when she first received Laufey’s son, and thus Loki himself had no knowledge of his role in the fate of the Nine Realms. Or perhaps Frigga had and had kept the terrible truth to herself, unwilling to inflict it on the child she favored. Either way, Angrboða sensed it would be an interesting day.

When the meal was done, she rose, leaving the badgers to clear the table. In a show of manners worthy of a prince, Loki gave her his arm, and they walked outside, to the stable. Her chariot stood waiting, hulking, bad-tempered polar bears in the harnesses. Their eyes glowed red in the overcast light. Angrboða allowed Loki to help her up, and took the reins, wrapping the leather straps around her hands as he climbed in behind her.

“To the sea,” she ordered, smiling, snapping the leather straps. The bears ran, pulling the chariot at hellish speed, shooting out over the fallen snow in a blur. She sensed Loki behind her, gripping the sides of the chariot and heard his quick gasp as it became clear after a few minutes that they were heading towards cliffs just beyond the forest. The scent of brine filled the air.

“Put your arms around me, little prince!” Angrboða called over her shoulder to him. He did just at the chariot sailed over the edge, the bears diving into the angry grey seas below. Angrboða felt him cling to her, and when the chariot hit the waves, it slowed enough to make Loki’s body slam against hers. 

Bubbles filled her vision for a moment, but she freed one hand from the reins and waved, clearing them away. The chariot righted, still hitched to the bears, who swam strongly, pulling it under the waves and through the swaying water. Angrboða peeked again over her shoulder, her hair drifting around her and caught wavery sight of Laufey’s son looking very white-faced and grim, his grip on her tight.

She reached her free hand into her cleavage and pulled out the Singasteinn, holding it up so he could see its gleam. _See? We move through Hafgufa and Lyngbakr's realms easily with this._

_I see,_ came his reply, his gaze as much on her as on the stone. _How do I know, though that it's the stone and not your **own** magic?_

Angrboða let go of the reins. She twisted out of Loki’s grip and swam up, leaving him and the chariot moving off into the dark depths. It took only a moment for him to realize his danger. Loki pushed himself free of the vehicle and began to swim clumsily towards her, his eyes wide with panic as his leather armor weighed him down. Angrboða drifted, letting him struggle to reach her again; the moment his grip caught her sleeve he relaxed, bubbles tinged with blood rising from his lips. 

_Do **not** doubt me,_ she told him. _This test was easy;try it in the other two realms we shall visit and you will **die** before you reach me. Do you understand me, little prince?_

He nodded, his dark hair drifting around his pale face, his cold, angry eyes on hers. _I do._

Pleased, Angrboða tucked the stone back into her décolleté and sang out a piercing note that vibrated through the deep waters. Within minutes they were back in the chariot rising to the surface and being towed towards a rocky beach. Once there, Angrboða freed the bears, who plunged back into the crashing waves. 

Loki stood on the rocky shore, wet and annoyed, too proud to admit he was cold. His pout, Angrboða decided, was enchanting. She stepped over to him and took one icy hand between the two of hers, drying and warming Loki in an instant. 

“Better?” 

“Yes,” he replied, his words brusque. “Are you _always_ so cruel, my lady?” 

It was an attempt to distract her, a courtier’s tactic and Angrboða cocked her head to look at him. “Yes. You respect cruelty.” 

He opened his mouth to deny it, to protest that it wasn’t true, but Angrboða merely stared at him until Loki closed his lips again. She crossed her arms and managed a small smile. “The freedom to move under the seas is no little magic, son of stone. You know how valuable that would be to one like you who seeks to hide. Shall we continue?” 

It wasn’t really a question, and she took his hand, looking up into the heavy grey clouds. “Come,” Angrboða ordered, and they rose into the sky like two arrows. 

*** *** *** 

When she’d shown him that the Singasteinn did indeed give its master the power to live in any realm they’d returned to her hall deep in the Iron-wood. The moon was new, dark behind her veil and Angrboða blew her a kiss when they arrived. 

Instead of inviting her guest to dine, Angrboða settled herself in one of the fireside chairs and waited for Loki to come join her. He did, his movements thoughtful, and when they were both seated across from each other once more, he leaned back, a finger to his lips. 

“What do you want for the Singasteinn?” Loki asked quietly. This straightforward question hung in the air for a moment. Angrboða let her gaze move over him from head to toe and back again as she thought how to answer his question. Finally she sighed. 

“What I want and what must pass are not the same, princeling. Since last night you have been thinking of a way to trick me out of the stone; some way to take it from me without violence if possible, but with if necessary.” 

She watched him glance away, but wisely say nothing. Angrboða continued. “There is no need for deception, Loki, son of Laufey, prince of Asgard. The Singasteinn is yours in exchange for a year of nights in my bed.” 

Angrboða had _never_ seen anyone blush so fiercely. The dull red flushed his high cheeks and down his throat, mottling his fair skin in the glow of the fire. Loki tried to regain his composure, clearing his throat to buy time as he shifted in his chair but she spoke first, her voice matter-of-fact. “The fact that you have foaled a stallion does not matter, nor the fact that I am older than you by several centuries. What has been prophesied will come to pass, and between us, we shall destroy the Nine Realms.” 

It took a while for him to speak, but Angrboða fished the stone out from between her breasts and toyed with it, letting the firelight send sparkles around the hall. When Loki finally managed to get words out, the first were, “R-ragnarok?” 

Angrboða nodded. “That will come about through us. The fury, the chaos, and the destruction that will bring the gods down all begin with our get.” 

“But the legends say—” 

“The legends say that a wolf will devour Odin, a serpent will fatally poison Thor, and all who fall in battle will make their way to the underworld ruled by a daughter of two shades,” Angrboða interjected. “I know the saga, princeling. The part that has been kept from you is that you will be father to all three. I have no doubt that both Odin and Frigga are well-aware of what must come to pass, and therefore know that your fall from the bifrost has not killed you.” 

Angrboða bided her time, giving Loki as much as he needed to take in all she had just said. She knew he was adaptable, bright enough to see the better aspects of the agreement, and bitterly vindictive enough now to enjoy the darker ones. The fire burned on, never consuming the piled yew logs, and strange shadows flickered against the walls; images of things that weren’t there. 

Finally, ages later, Loki drew in a deep breath and let his gaze turn back to her, his stare re-assessing Angrboða. She allowed it, unperturbed by his curiosity and dark interest. In her time watching him in Asgard she’d seen him seduce and abandon a few maidens, practicing his enticing charm in the careless way of young males. He had been no match for his brother’s bounty, but Loki was no innocent either, and the scandal of Sleipnir lingered. 

Clearly fathering monsters would not unnerve him, Angrboða knew. 

She lifted her chin, letting Loki study her features in the firelight, taking a small degree of satisfaction at the dark of his pupils and the way his tongue flicked against his lower lip. “A year of servicing you. Forgive me, but why so long?” 

That was the question she had waited for, and Angrboða smiled. It was as sharp as an icicle and still, it gave her beauty. “Because I must catch three times, and my womb must be filled to do so. You are young and virile, but even so, it will take more than a few night’s worth of spunk to quicken my belly.” 

He blushed again. Angrboða rose and moved to Loki, standing between his spread knees, bending over and placing her hands on the arms of his chair. “Take the Singasteinn,” she whispered. “The stone is yours.” 

Loki quickly slipped a hand into her cleavage, and the lingering touch of his cool fingers caressed her even as he slipped the stone from its warm nest. Once it was free, he gripped it tightly, and brought his face closer to hers, his smile touched with unpleasant triumph. 

“And now that I _have_ it, what’s to stop me from leaving here and _never_ coming back, my lady?” he mocked. 

Angrboða let her lips brush his. “Nothing stops you from leaving, my prince, but by my blood-kiss you are bound to return.” 

“Your—” was as far as he got; Angrboða pressed her mouth to his and let her teeth nip his lower lip. Loki shuddered but did not pull away; he kissed back, and when it ended, Angrboða let her tongue circle her red smile, tasting the salty copper on her mouth. Loki touched his lip and drew his bloody fingers away. 

“I have given and taken; you have taken and given. This binds us, Loki, son of Laufey, prince of Asgard,” she chuckled. 

His face was a study in controlled fury, but under that lay cunning and lust as well, and the green of Loki’s eyes glowed like emeralds on fire. “You _tricked_ me,” he accused hoarsely. 

“I tricked you _first,_ you mean,” Angrboða corrected. “Yes. Now come to my bed, princeling.” 

A stream of remarkably vile profanity flowed from Loki’s wounded lips, spilling forth in a menacing rush of anger into the shadowed hall. Angrboða merely waited, reaching one hand to brush back a lock of his raven hair that had fallen across his brow. When he finally wound down his tirade, his rush of his fury finally draining away she cupped his thin face in her hands, tipping it up to meet her eyes. 

“I hate you,” Loki hissed at her. 

“I know,” Angrboða replied. “I know.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Undressing Loki was interesting.

He was pale and lean as a birch sapling, and when Angrboða undid the thin leather thongs that held up Loki’s leggings, she took a moment to brush his flat stomach with her knuckles. To his credit he didn’t flinch, although she sensed he was skittish about her proximity, as well he should be.  


Angrboða moved slowly, and pushed the leggings down past the princeling’s knees so he could step out of them.

Bare, Loki carried himself with the same arrogance as when dressed, and tried to look indifferent to her gaze. She could tell that he still seethed, but it added to his charm and Angrboða enjoyed the way Loki glared at her like an angry cat. His hate was no deterrent to his lust, however; his cock stood high, thick, and ready. She stepped closer and caressed it, her touch warm along his length. Angrboða looked into his eyes as she did so, the pads of her fingers sliding over the thickly veined column.

“Impressive,” she murmured.

“I’m sure you’ve seen enough to know,” Loki replied thickly. He seemed torn between reluctantly enjoying her touch and wanting to pull away from it. She held his shaft a moment longer than he wanted, then smiled.

“I have, son of stone,” Angrboða replied, neither boastful nor embarrassed. “The pillars of the Jötnar are known to me and my sisters; our children howl at the moon because of them.” It was true and always had been; those of Iron Wood bore the wolves that ran through the worlds.

She felt his fingers grip her bodice, yanking at the laces impatiently. Loki shifted closer, crowding in to intimidate her as he tugged them loose. Angrboða made no attempt to stop or admonish him, merely letting the prince of Asgard pull her clothing open. She stepped out of her dress, moving to pick it up, but he caught her arm, stopping her.

“Leave it and attend to _me,_ ” Loki ordered, and although his command was firm, his voice was not; Angrboða heard the hint of fear in it. She looked down at his fingers wrapped around her, and bared her teeth.

“Do you need a moment to rethink your words, my prince?” Angrboða whispered. “You are under _my_ roof with _my_ food in your belly and about to lie with _me_ in _my_ bed.”

She saw him consider; his eyes wary as he loosened his grip and let his hand slide up her arm in a caress. “Ah, but all of them are freely _given,_ my lady, is that not so? Even your quim?”

Angrboða lifted a hand to cup his jaw. “Do not mistake destiny for desire, nor churlishness for charm, father of my brood. Handsome you are, and yes I hunger to have you buried deep within me, but I am no-one you should try to command.”

“Why not?” he breathed, this time his voice deeper with lust as his other hand reached to cup her breast. “The female must _always_ give in to the male; despite your magic and reputation you _are_ the smaller and less powerful of the two of us, my lady.”

His youthful arrogance, his self-assured misassumption nearly made her laugh aloud. Angrboða stared into his face, willing herself not to let her lips turn upwards, since even a puppy may bite. “Truly. Perhaps you would be good enough to _show_ me this, silver-tongued one.”

Loki smiled, his dimples deep, his gaze bright, and Angrboða realized that he had not heard her tone of amusement at all. Clearly his carnal appetite blocked his common sense, and it was time to let him find out his mistake the hard way.

The way so many of her previous lovers had.

Angrboða permitted him to nuzzle her, to push her onto the mattress stuffed with owl-down. The chamber’s brazier gave enough glow to see by, and she let herself be roughly shifted onto her back. Loki pulled her knees apart impatiently, and his hands were cool as they slid to brush her curls. He watched her face, but Angrboða neither frowned nor smiled as he touched and toyed with her cleft. She had not lied; her body was more than ready to receive him, given the slick glaze sliding along her thighs and his fingers.

He gave a pleased chuckle and shifted, sliding his body on hers, pinning her with his weight. She felt the thrust of his shaft into her, a hard plunge meant to show control of her, and _that_ was when Angrboða finally smiled. 

And squeezed. Loki grunted in shock, his entire body shuddering as his orgasm wracked him, the rings of muscle deep between Angrboða thighs milking him with swift relentlessness, pulling his seed forth even as he gasped and struggled to push himself up, his expression caught between astonishment and fear. Angrboða lay back, gazing up at him, feeling the last of his surges spill within her. This coupling was not as pleasing as it should have been, but she hoped this would be the only time she would need to demonstrate her power. Given the look on the shadow son’s face however . . .

“W-what are you _doing!?_ ” came his roar as he stared down where their bodies were joined. Angrboða drew a breath and relaxed, her muscles now fluttering gently to caress as Loki rocked his hips back, sliding free of her with no little relief on his face as he did so. Gone was the arrogance, replaced with fearful rage and reassurance once he saw that his shaft was still attached to him. Loki scrambled up and off her, backing away, his eyes flinty now.

“Showing you the error of your ways, Princeling,” she told him quietly. “I am perfectly capable of _taking_ your seed without allowing for much pleasure. I would prefer not to do it this way, but I will if necessary.”

Once again Loki hissed profanity, his accusations, curses and threats weaving in a thick cascade of dark hatred. Angrboða propped herself up on one elbow to watch him, thinking that even in his naked fury he still was a beautiful sight, long and pale in the glow of the brazier. When he wound down and tried to fish for his clothing, Angrboða lay back and stretched, unconcerned about displaying her charms. He hesitated and glared at her, clearly bothered by her nonchalant attitude, finally spitting out, “You will never force me to lie with you _again_ , witch.”

“I won’t have to,” Angrboða murmured. “You are free to leave, dark prince, but equally free to stay. The night is cold, the Iron Wood dangerous in the dark.” 

“Better the danger there than the danger here,” Loki sneered. “Even your magic will not bring me back to your bed, troll-bitch.”

“So you say,” She told him politely. “Do you need a cloak for the cold?”

He gnashed his teeth and looked as if he would like to strike her but Angrboða knew the shadow son would not do it, not while his fear was greater than his anger. She reached for the heavy bear fur pelt and pulled it over herself, settling down into the featherbed, giving Loki no further thought as she closed her eyes.

The badgers would show him out, Angrboða knew, and even a prince of Asgard would think twice about angering _them._

*** 

The morning found her alone once more, and Angrboða went about the business of her day, not allowing herself to think of the princeling. There was spinning and then weaving to be done, and a complicated casting of bones to read for a coughing visitor hiding himself in thick furs. By the time the pale sun was high in the sky, she had fed her ravens, directed the badgers to gather wood and bartered with the black dwarves at the mouth of their distant cave—goats and honey for various mushrooms, roots and grubs she would need before long.

On the walk home through the snowy dark trees, Angrboða heard soft pad-falls of paws behind her and smiled. Some of the Children remembered, but some needed to be reminded. She sped up, listening for the chase to begin. It came soon enough, and as the snow crunched underfoot Angrboða raced ahead, weaving through the towering pines and laughing. When at last the chase ended near the frozen gray of the creek she turned, watching the swift grey ones reach her and pause mid-snarl, their green eyes glowing like eerie embers.

Those who remembered sat, curling their bushy tails around their feet, but those who did not began their stalk, veering around each side in an attempt to divide her attention. Angrboða let them circle her, their ears flattened and their teeth bared as she caught her breath, the puffs of white floating around her. 

She raised her hands out, waiting for the first rush. When it came, and the lead wolf dashed forward, Angrboða shifted, letting her bones and sinew re-arrange themselves in the blink of an eye. Fur grew. Her nails lengthened into claws. She growled, making the ice in the creek crack.

The rushing wolf twisted mid-charge as Angrboða’s hot breath drifted out between her huge yellowed fangs. Those sharp teeth sank into his hip, slashing it and hot carmine gouts splashed onto the snow, steaming with life-heat. As the wounded wolf whined and rolled onto the ground, the other stalkers scuttled off into the trees, disappearing. The sitting ones merely waited.

Angrboða stepped over to the wounded child and thrust her muzzle against his exposed belly, fangs nipping the thinly furred skin for a moment before she let go and moved to brush her muzzle against his. He obediently showed his neck, fear and remembrance in his gesture and for a long moment she considered letting him live.

*** 

The stone tub had been polished by decades, centuries of use, and yet Angrboða still stared at it, caught up in the dance of carvings cut deeply into the smoke-colored granite. Hers were not the first claw-marks along the edges, but she’d added a few in her time. The badgers had filled and heated it before she’d arrived home, and now she lay in the water, breathing in the steam.

When she climbed out, the rose-tinted water had grown cold.

The badgers knew not to set any food on the table, and the corner of the hall the boar piglet cowered in his basket. Angrboða ignored him and moved to her bower, combing out her damp hair and gazing past her reflection deep in the diamond mirror into Vanaheimr, watching Loki and waiting. He looked tired; strain bracketed the corners of his mouth and even in the distant depths of the glass she could see he’d pushed the limits of his magic simply to reach the realm. A pity then, that his trip would be in vain, Angrboða thought, working on a particularly stubborn tangle. 

She nearly missed the moment, but caught it from the corner of her eye; the green glow flared out around Loki, enveloping him with an aura of energy even as he protested. He faded from view in the glass, and Angrboða turned, setting down her bone comb and rising as the very walls of the hall vibrated with a keen note that made the piglet squeal and the spiders overhead scurry up their draglines to hide in the dark corners.

A glow flared up in a column rising from the floor, coalescing into a familiar shape, and Angrboða watched him solidify from the doorway of her bower, waiting to see what the princeling would do. 

He looked up, catching her gaze, and in that stare she felt the prickle of something rich, dark, and dangerous flow between them, as charged as lightning but wilder. Loki squared his shoulders and shifted his weight, madness tinting his smile. His fists clenched.

“How?” he demanded, not moving. “HOW?”

Angrboða licked her bottom lip, tasting a faint hint of copper still there in one corner.

“Dark child of the gods, our blood is one. This I have told you, warned you. No being in any of the Nine Realms, be they Ice Giant, God, beast, or demon can break what fate has cast for us, Loki, son of Laufey, prince of Asgard. Wherever you roam, you _will_ return to me each night.”

He moved like a snake, drawing the dagger and lunging at her, sinking the blade deep between her breasts, and even as he did so, Loki staggered, letting go of the handle, his hands grasping his chest. Red bubbled up at his collar, spilling over his tunic.

Angrboða let him fall to the floor. She pulled out the dagger and let it drop, then bent down to roll Loki to his back, looking down into his pale face. It took a moment to pull his tunic open and another to press a kiss to the leaking wound, but as her mouth touched it, the blood flowed backwards, moving towards its origin, slipping once more into his body.

Loki looked up at her and the strange gaze flared between them again; hate and lust twisted around each other like tangles of briar. Angrboða drew a breath and kissed him, leaving a wet crimson imprint on his ashen mouth.

“To bed,” she whispered.


	4. Chapter 4

He was cold, so she held him, the pair of them nestled deep under the furs on the bed. Angrboða wrapped herself around Loki’s spine and stroked his cool skin, her touch slow and soothing as they lay together though a dark hour, not speaking. She waited for her unresisting princeling to stir, knowing that his emotions warred with his curiosity, and the latter would win out soon.

“What if I give back the stone?” came his tired whisper.

She smiled in the dark. “That would be foolish, son of shadow, because I would not, _will_ not take it. This accord cannot be un-struck by the return of the Singasteinn.”

He shifted, and she let go of him. Loki rolled to his back, staring upwards, not meeting her eyes, and in the dim light Angrboða watched his profile. “What if I . . . will not perform?”

“Will not, or cannot? There _is_ a difference,” she replied with amusement, well-aware that under the bear pelt over them his young body was aroused in spite of his words.

“Either.”

“Ah. Well if you will not, then I will wait until you are asleep and visit your dreams, lordling. I will turn them into slow, sweat-drenched fantasies of such erotic power that you will have no choice but to succumb and give me what is mine.”

Loki’s lean frame shuddered, and she could not tell if it was with desire or fear. It didn’t matter.

“A-and if I cannot?”

Angrboða gave a little laugh. “Then I will build your pyre and send you to Valhalla since the only way that would happen would be if you were dead, son of ice. Your prick rises as faithfully and unstoppably as the sun each morning despite yourself, and its appetite is _strong._ ”

“Yours is a cruel snare,” Loki growled uncomfortably. “How do I know my prick will still be _mine_ afterwards?”

“Because it would do me no good without the rest of you attached to it,” Angrboða teased quietly. “Listen to me and set your conceit aside for a moment—four seasons with you are my fate, and I am too wise to spend them in loathing and distrust as the time passes. Give me our children and I will show you dark seiðr the like of which Frigga has never known. With it, your sorcery will bring worlds to your feet and make the stars bow to you. All I ask in return is your obedience in our time together.”

“Obedient. I was obedient for _years_ and see where it got me,” Loki spat out bitterly. “Passed over and ignored, and then, _then_ when I took matters into my own hands the truth came out! Well it cost them the bifrost, oh I made sure of that!”

“The tantrum of a child,” Angrboða murmured drily. “The Allfather and Heimdall will see to its repair before long.”

Loki snorted. “Long enough, and the damage to Odin’s reputation will linger through the nine realms, believe me.”

“While building your own?”

“Yes, precisely,” he agreed, sounding slightly mollified as he rolled to face her. “You tell me that together we will bring an end to the gods, but I want my revenge sooner, my lady. Do you have magic enough to do that?”

She considered her answer before speaking. “I have magic that will let you sow the seeds of discord and enmity wherever you go, dark prince. I can teach you how to uncover secrets and twist time to suit your will, but they take time to learn.”

“Time we have,” Loki pointed out with a wry smile. “At the very least, nights for a year.”

Angrboða nodded and reached for him, one hand sliding over his bare shoulder, her fingertips gliding over the smooth skin. “That we do, if we are in accord. Come, I will make this night _pleasant_ for you.”

She sensed he was still wary, but through her many years of lovers Angrboða knew how to soothe and excite, how to help both ego and flesh swell as she murmured depraved words into the pale shell of Loki’s ear, and ran her hands over the turgid flesh of his prick. This time when he breeched her body, Angrboða let her cleft pulse lightly around his shaft, caressing its length in rolling waves as he moved.

Still, she didn’t want it to end too soon, and when he grew near to crisis, Angrboða relaxed, allowing herself to loosen her body’s clench on him. Loki whined as he rocked above her, perplexed at the loss of sensation, his scowl almost puppylike. “No!”

She chided him. “Shhhhh. Still yourself, princeling, and savor this keen edge. We shall build again, and when you give over, the pleasure will be all the more intense for your restraint.”

Loki pursed his mouth, reluctantly doing as she ordered, keeping himself in her but not moving. For a few long minutes, Angrboða lay under him, looking up into his face, touching it softly with her fingertips. “ _So_ much lust within you, molten and angry. Almost painful, that edge of agony in holding it back. How you must _hate_ my cunt!”

He bit back a growl. “Yessss.”

“And yet you _want_ it so very much, want to _make_ it wrap hard around your aching prick and make me give you your pleasure—” Angrboða crooned, letting her cleft tighten fractionally. Loki thrust again, working to stroke slowly, the long muscles of his throat standing out as he fought against his body’s basic urges to rush.

She was impressed. The young usually had far less self-control and needed more than one lesson. Still the throb of Loki’s shaft within her awakened her own hunger, and Angrboða rocked her hips to his, moaning softly. “Harder then, and _tell_ me what you want--”

Loki did. The rush of his curses made filthy music around them, and he mounted her in rough strokes as she let her body squeeze his heavy cock in slick, hot pulses. He gave over a few minutes later, taking her with him, long spine arching as he emptied himself deep within her, the scalding spray hot and sweet in her womb.

Once he was asleep Angrboða slipped out of the bed and wrapped herself in her owl cloak. One of the badgers opened the door and she flew off into the night, celebrating the sliver of cold moon far above.

*** *** *** 

In the morning she had the badgers feed him smoked venison and fresh bread. Angrboða herself had no appetite, not after hunting through the dark hours. Instead she opened a small leather pouch and pulled out eight gems, setting them on the table in a rough diamond shape on the polished wood before her.

Loki glanced over with interest. He looked slightly disheveled and his smile held a hint of smugness to it, but Angrboða refused to let it charm her. She held her hands over the stones and concentrated, pulling the energy latent in them and letting it build into a hazy ball of light as the stones turned to piles of pale dust. Angrboða moved her hands, guiding the ball and making it moved towards Loki’s cup of wine. With a flick of her fingers it dropped into the liquid and solidified it. Curious, Loki picked up his drink and upended it; a cup-shaped ruby slid out, heavy and glittering.

“Impressive,” he breathed, reaching for the stone and hefting it. “No wonder you have no need for treasure.”

“In part,” she agreed. “But the power to take the energy from stone and use it on other elements is part of your heritage, son of Laufey. Did Frigga not show you this?”

He frowned. “No.”

Angrboða said nothing, well-aware of his loyalty. It was only natural; the goddess had been the only one to spend instructional time with him, and what little good there was in Loki came from her. She watched him toy with the ruby, bringing it to his nose and sniffing it.

“No scent.”

“No, it is _stone_ now, not wine,” she reminded him. “The essence of the wine has been transformed.”

“Can you change it back?”

Angrboða reached over and pressed her hand on the gem; it shifted, and the resulting splash soaked Loki’s sleeve and the remains of his breakfast but he didn’t seem to notice the mess as he brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them.  
He stared at her for a long moment as a badger bustled up to clean the mess.

“Teach me,” Loki ordered.

Angrboða arched an eyebrow.

“Please,” he added, his expression solemn.

She rose and held a hand out to him. “Let us go and meet stone.”

They walked through the woods up a crooked path the wound higher along a weathered scree, and Angrboða pointed out various types of rock and stone, giving voice to the old names for them. Dutifully Loki repeated them, and she saw that he wanted to ask questions but was refraining. That pleased her, and she smiled to let him know it.

They reached the top of the rise, and stood on the stretch of windswept gorse and clover as the winds sang around them. One side held a long view of the land, full of ancient pines and rounded hills; far below came the trail of smoke rising up from Angrboða’s hall. On the other side, the grey and sullen sea stretched along the horizon, little white crests breaking through the dark water. Far below on that side, the waves crashed hard against the base of the cliff, boiling over in foam time and time again.

Angrboða let the wind rake through her hair, breathed in the cold air and then turned to Loki. “We stand here on _the_ largest stone in the Iron-Wood, little hrímþursar prince, and if you concentrate, you will feel its power under your boots.”

Obediently he closed his eyes and turned his focus inward; as he did so, Angrboða made the ground rumble ever so slightly. Loki’s eyes opened in alarm, but she merely smiled, and stepped out of her boar-hide slippers. Her bare feet were pale against the green of the clover, peeping out from her skirt, but Angrboða ignored Loki’s amused look and let her soles press down against the ground to connect with the energy under them.

The ground vibrated; Loki’s expression shifted to apprehension as he strove to keep his balance. Angrboða closed her eyes and raised her arms as the tremors increased. A low rumble began to build, and a few moments later the ground rose as the entire area they stood on levitated a few inches into the air. Angrboða opened her eyes just enough to see Loki gape over the side of the cliff, watching small boulders and stones break off from their section of ground to tumble, splashing into the sea far below.

“Lady, your magic moves _worlds,_ ” he finally murmured, turning to look at her with new respect.

“As will yours, in time,” she replied, and concentrated again, lowering the section back down. It ground against the earth below with another rumble, settling in once again with an earsplitting screech of stone scraping against stone that sent seabirds into panicked flight all around them.

She stepped back into her shoes and then looked at Loki, taking a moment to study him in the daylight as he looked back at her, neither afraid nor embarrassed. Angrboða gave one nod, and then knelt, her hands held out, waiting for his boot.

He looked genuinely surprised, but lifted his leg and brought his foot up to her waiting hands; Angrboða undid the leather casings and carefully pried the boot off, setting it aside and reaching for the other one to do the same actions. Loki’s boots were lined with green fur inside, she noted, and well-cared for.

Angrboða looked at Loki’s bare feet. They were long, clean, and milky, with defined tendons. They were, she thought, the feet of a man who moved quickly and lightly. Keeping her smile to herself she rose up and spoke. “Stand solidly, and feel yourself connecting to the stone. Let the coolness flow from it to you, meet it with your _own_ magic, dark prince. Concentrate.”

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, hands curling into fists at his sides. Angrboða circled him, aware of the rock below them faintly responding to his call. The power was weak; a thin thread for now, but the leyline was true. She came to stand in front of him again, and reached her hands to cover his fists, her colder skin drawing the warmth from him.

The resulting surge rocked them both as the ground shuddered.


	5. Chapter 5

He was a good pupil for magic, Angrboða learned. Quick, intuitively gifted in the art and dedicated. From the first day Loki watched and listened, following her directions and asking precisely the right questions. The basic groundwork that Frigga had given him served its purpose but now there was much more to master, and Angrboða enjoyed watching him absorb her lessons.

Illusions for one; although he’d done well in learning to replicate himself even before his fall from the bifrost, there was always more to assimilate. Loki had tried to fool her with a light figure of himself but she passed through it without comment, which annoyed him.

“What gave it away?” he demanded.

“It was not you,” she replied. “It carried no scent, and failed to lay a shadow on the wall, little prince. It might have fooled someone _else_ for a few moments, but the eye and nose would eventually bring truth to the minds of your opponents.”

Angrboða showed him how to give solidity to his projections, how to add depth and touches to the other aspects to flesh them out. He pouted less and concentrated more, taking to cold heart her instructions as they settled into an odd relationship. During the mornings she taught, the pair of them roaming the Iron Wood together. By the middle hours of the day Loki would leave, heading off to any number of places through the nine realms, often with no indication of where he was going.

She didn’t worry. Fate would keep him alive if not in one piece, surely able to return to her bed and bring about the end of the worlds, eventually.

In the meantime there were visitors to consult with, ingredients to acquire and hundreds of little matters to set right and keep going, and by the time the moon grew fat and full, Angrboða began to feel heat building between her thighs.

It was time to teach her little consort the benefit of patience.

That night she shook her head when he slid over her supine form. “No. Tonight you will lie under _me._ ”

Loki’s impatience made him frown, but he obediently rolled to his back, his attention focused on her body and not her expression. Angrboða took advantage of that and straddled him, her knees on each side of his hips. He looked up at her, reached for her, but Angrboða thought a command and his hands flew back, pinned on either side of his head to the mattress.

“No,” he growled, still distracted as she rubbed herself against him. “There is no need; I’m willing enough, my lady.”

Angrboða sighed, and flared for a moment, the heat of her skin making him draw in a sharp breath. “Be quiet, little fool.”

Under her, Loki gave a low growl, his expression petulant, but she ignored it, and slid her hands along his firm stomach, tracing her fingers there, her touch leaving faint red curlicues on his pale skin. “Tonight I am at the start of my heat, and if I am not careful you will suffer, princeling mine.”

He looked up at her, his fine dark hair, glossy as a raven’s wing all across her linen pillow, and Angrboða thought him beautiful. “Heat,” he echoed, looking wary.

She laughed then, because Loki was after all, so young. “Yes. You must take me tonight in your true form, son of ice, and even then you will still feel the fire deep within me.”

His expression remained troubled, but Angrboða slid down his body, still straddling it, until she was on his shins, her hands toying with his erection in slow caresses that made it stiffen quickly. Under her, his legs shifted, parting to give her more access, and he groaned when her fingers fondled him. “Heat,” he murmured again, this time more approvingly.

Angrboða leaned down, bringing her lips close to his prick, and let her whisper carry. “Your _true_ form,” she reminded him solemnly.

She saw him hesitate, and knew why, knew how he still felt a sense of revulsion for his origins and appearance. Angrboða tossed her wild hair back and let herself shift, felt the soft curves of her body fade into sharp planes of glittering obsidian. Loki’s gaze took her in, and she knew he appreciated what he saw because he sighed his amazement.

“Lady, you are beautiful.”

“I am true to myself, and dangerous,” Angrboða amended, quietly pleased he thought so. She had seen her true self in the mirror thus; darker than death, with glass-blue edges honed to blade thinness. Her eyes glowed, and the flames within them danced with fiery flirtatiousness. Smoke trailed in sensual ribbons around her.

Loki drew a breath and his form shimmered into the cold blue of his heritage, the stone of his body well-carved with muscle and the chiseled, mysterious runes that marked him as part of Laufey’s line. And in her hands the thick pillar of his prick rose, cool and ridged as she stroked it.

This coupling was unlike any other they’d done before, and Angrboða found herself moved beyond the call of her womb. For hours they mated in sensual synchronicity, the slide of stone against stone slickened by steam and the molten lava deep within her. Every scrape, every thrust made her moan as the very ice of Loki met her heat.

Loki was affected too; he crooned her name, rasped endearments even as the carvings on his skin began to glow red and his breath chuffed in misty gusts. When Angrboða finally came, shuddering hard, her head tossed back as she howled to the sky he too, surged deep in a torrent of icy spurts that left him groaning.

“I am . . . filled,” she told him in a voice thick with satisfaction. “Well-done, prince of frost. Now I must sleep, and let your seed plant itself deep.”

She shifted off of him and curled up, heavy and slow now, ready for rest. When Loki moved to curl around her, Angrboða let him. She began to shift forms, but he whispered, “Don’t. This . . . _true_ you . . . is beautiful, my lady.”

“Save the silver of that tongue for others, princeling,” she murmured, but his words pleased her, and she kept her dark and gleaming form through the night as he wrapped his blue-stone body around hers.

*** *** *** 

Thunder and rain filled the morning, and the hall was dark except for the fireplace and the braziers that cast feeble light around them. Angrboða made the breakfast, having dismissed the badgers to take refuge in their own homes. Loki sat near the fire, barely dressed in a wolf-fur shift, his concentration on a small scrying globe in his hands. When she handed him a bowl of porridge, he barely looked up, but remembered to murmur his thanks.

“What holds your fascination, father of my brood?” Angrboða murmured lightly, although she had her suspicions.

“My brother,” came the slightly surly reply. “This weather is his work, and I wish to know the cause of his ire.”

“Perhaps he is tired of repairing what you have destroyed,” she told him, earning a petulant glare. Unbothered, Angrboða added, “Do not look at me so for speaking the truth, son of stone.”

“I see now why your observations are so sharp,” Loki grumbled. “You whet them against everyone around you, my lady, and their pain keens your edge.”

“I do not deny it,” she countered, “but then again, most who make their way to my door are not as complex as _you_ are. They come to me because they have needs and fears and desires, they wear them as plainly on their face as their own noses.”

“And you live by them as well. I have seen your bargains, the exchange of wealth for what they need,” Loki rose and came over to her, tossing the glass ball from hand to hand. “A consultation, a healing, a little bag of medicine, among _other_ . . . barters.” 

There was a hint of jealousy in his tone, and Angrboða arched an eyebrow as she reached out and caught the scrying globe. When it landed on her fingers the ball turned into flock of bats who swooped around the hall and up towards the rafters in a black winged dance. Loki said nothing, but his expression now held acknowledgement that perhaps he had stepped too far.

“Listen to me well, Prince Loki Laufeyson of Asgard— we too, have a barter, and on it hangs the fate of the realms. In due time you will take a wife, and know now that she will _not_ be me. I am no-one’s bride or beloved in all the nine worlds. I am the bringer of grief, and that is what I shall _always_ be.”

He looked at her, chastised and slightly curious. “I beg forgiveness for my words. And yet I would know _why_ you are as you are.”

One of the hard questions. She had been expecting it, and yet there was still a moment of pained surprise that it would come here, at the breakfast table. Angrboða gripped her own bowl of porridge more tightly.

“I answer this question with a question of my own, shadow son. What have Odin, Frigga and Thor given you?”

She saw him start to speak, then stop to reconsider his words, sensing more to her query than the obvious answer. Loki followed her to the table and sat at her left hand side, toying with his breakfast for a few moments before clearing his throat and speaking.

“A home. A place in their family. An education. Privilege, I suppose.”

“And what have you given _them?_ ” Angrboða asked.

He brought his head up, anger in his gaze, but she held it, and he relaxed by inches, still not understanding. Still waiting.

She sighed. “Love, you little fool. They loved you, all three of them, each in their own way. They love you _still_ though you refuse to admit it. You suspect them, question their reasons and deny that your own heart holds them dear.”

Loki tried to protest, but Angrboða hissed, and let herself shift form, allowing her face to change to that of a wolf, her teeth snapping her fangs at him. Unnerved, Loki started back, his porridge splattering to the floor where the boar piglet made a quick meal of it, grunting happily.

She shifted back, her face human again, and impassive. “ _I_ cannot love. I have never been loved nor loved another in all my long life, princeling. The closest I will ever come to it will be the care I give to our offspring so that they may fulfill their roles as the Norn have decreed. No visitor to my door or bed has claim on _my_ heart.”

Loki cocked his head, her words sinking in, and for a moment she saw a flash of fresh pain in his fine eyes. “Oh.”

Angrboða sighed. “For all my edge, there is a blunt side too. Take comfort in the fact that out there is one who _will_ love you. Today, you will learn to fight for your life.”

“I’ve done it before,” he boasted, his smile chilly.

An hour later they were out in the cold damp of the Iron Wood, standing on a hill rising through the dark trees. Loki wore a thick bear fur cape over his green leather and yet both his cheeks and nose were red. Angrboða watched him from a distance away, noting his perfectly balanced hunter’s stance.

She strode out, her huge paws almost noiseless through the wet undergrowth, and when he saw her, Loki relaxed fractionally, his knife loose in his fist. “You make a fine bitch,” he called to her, his tone slightly mocking as Angrboða circled around, her pale yellow gaze on him the entire time.

Now that he was off-guard, she charged, leaping up and knocking him backwards into the mud. Loki twisted, rolling away, his shock shifting to defensive anger as she anticipated his move and snapped at his face, barely missing his nose.  
He thrust the knife at her, hopping into a crouch, his free hand coming up to block any further charge. Angrboða feinted left, then darted in, sinking her teeth into his shin, moving away before he gasped and tried to bring his knife back towards her.

The string of curses he flung into the chilly air did not impress her, nor did his divided attention as he tried to nurse his wound. She trotted away a few paces and sat, watching as Loki worked to staunch the blood trickling into his boot, his gaze hateful now.

“Try that _again,_ ” came his taunt. “You overestimate yourself, my lady.”

She turned and sat. Loki rose and grinned as he tossed his blade from hand to hand, advancing on her. Angrboða didn’t move, and he was so focused on her that he missed the ghostly shadows of grey fur and green eyes that drifted out of the trees to surround him in a ring.

When he _did_ see them, Loki paused, re-estimating his situation. “That’s hardly fair now, is it? Six against one?”

Angrboða yawned, her fangs large against the red of her maw. For a moment she looked at him, and sensed another slight easing of tension.

She turned and trotted off as the first of her pack lunged for the prince.


	6. Chapter 6

There was a lot of blood, but not as much damage as there might have been, and Angrboða was pleased for that. Loki did not say a word when he limped in hours later. The badgers set him into a hot bath in the stone tub, moving around to lay bandages and ointments out before shuffling off to other chores. He absently washed the mud away and stood to rinse away the last of it, his marble body a study in bruises as he poured the ladles of steaming water over his head.

Angrboða moved closer as Loki dried himself off, his movements pain-filled and slow. She wrapped the gashes along his bicep in linen strips and stitched up a ragged puncture above his hip, saying nothing as he stood there, his fury growing as cold as the dirty water in the tub. When she was done, she rose up and held out her arms to his naked, wounded body.

He stared at her. 

She lifted her chin higher, and the sudden pull of magic forced Loki forward, into her embrace as Angrboða’s arms slid around him, drinking in the chill of his frame.

“Such beautiful hate,” she crooned. “Such distrust. I had no idea you loved me to this degree, my dark prince.”

“This is _not_ love,” Loki rasped, his words thick with loathing. “You have ensorcelled my loins for your own devious reasons. You are a vile, heartless bitch and I detest you more every day I am forced to service you.”

“Yes,” she murmured softly, “you are full of rage and pain, child of stone. If you could kill me, I know you would, and happily. Come, lie in my arms tonight while I tell you a story.”

He arched an eyebrow at her, his anger cool and unyielding, but Angrboða merely slid away and took one of his icy hands, pulling him along towards the bed, and Loki followed against his will. When they reached it, she lay down and guided him to her until his head rested against her breasts, the rest of his long, chilly body draped alongside hers under the comfort of owl down and fur. Angrboða clicked her tongue and the candles winked out, leaving only the dull red mouth of the distant fireplace as the only light in the hall.

“Once, long ago, when the nine realms were still soft and new, when Yggdrasil was but a slender sapling” she began, her words soft and slow, “there was a jotunn who burned.”

Angrboða waited a moment, knowing that the prince in her arms was paying attention despite his sulking. He made a low sound deep in his throat, and she continued, gently stroking Loki’s hair as she did so.

“He burned outside, with flames and sparks so strong they blotted out the stars, and everywhere he stepped turned instantly to ash. Nothing could survive his touch, his breath, his kiss. His name was Surtr, and he brought life to the nine realms, since nothing lives without heat, not even the monsters of the wet depths, or the shadows that stretch across the stars.”

“Surtr is but a legend,” came the sneering protest.

“So are you,” she reminded him. “Or _shall_ be. To continue, Surtr not only burned outside, but also in the inside. Heat is the herald of passion, and as the father of all fire Jotunn, Surtr held the passion of all nine worlds within himself. The force that compels us to mate, the basic urge of life boiled inside him with unending intensity.”

“Painful,” came the slower reply.

“Yes,” Angrboða agreed. “And maddening. He found himself driven to find a mate. One who would not die under him, who would give him harbor between her thighs. He searched all through Muspelheim and finally found a maiden who did not flee his approach. She was nearly as tall as he, and as dark as a night without stars. When Surtr came closer, she told him to kneel.”

Angrboða waited, and a moment later came Loki’s question. “Did he?”

“No,” she replied. “Surtr’s madness tormented him and he roared at her in fury, telling her that _she_ would be the one to kneel. The maiden watched him rage, and when Surtr reached to grab her wrist, she let him. Once his fiery fingers touched her skin however, the heat drained from them, giving him relief all through his hand and palm. He was so startled that he let go, and the maiden laughed.”

“How . . . familiar.”

“Shhhh. Naturally Surtr tried to grab her again, but she eluded him, dancing around his lumbering frame with the ease of a flame. He tried to catch her, and demanded to know her name. She told him he would know it when he slept, and vanished in a twist of smoke. Surtr didn’t think he could sleep, not with the object of his relief so close at hand, but he was tired and troubled, so he stretched out along the barren rock and closed his eyes.”

Loki lifted his head slightly, and Angrboða saw that by his speculative gaze that the story had intrigued him enough to make him forget his resentment--at least for the moment. “And he slept?”

“After a time he did,” Angrboða confirmed. “And he dreamt of a dark cave lit by flaming roots. At the far end of the cave was a hearth, and tending it was the maiden of before. She watched him come nearer and when he did, he saw she held a staff—“

“—Lævateinn,” Loki broke in, his interest sharpened. “It was _real_?”

Angrboða waited a moment, and then continued. “A staff of gnarled Iron-wood with fire glowing through runes on it from the door of death, a heavy branch constantly aflame and never consumed by the power it held. A weapon worth of respect.

‘Give it to me!’ Surtr commanded her, caught between desire for her and Lævateinn. But when he came closer, she held it high between her two hands and let it drop into a stone chest where nine heavy locks closed it. Surtr raged, but the maiden stepped on top of the stone chest and held out her arms to him.”

“He should have shoved her off and stolen the chest,” Loki observed drily. “It’s what _I_ would have done.”

Angrboða’s smile gleamed in the dark. “So you would; however, Surtr embraced her instead. But this was still a dream, and however much he tried to take her it was not possible. She wrapped herself tightly around him, smoke and steam filling the cave, and right before he awoke, Surtr heard her whisper her name, just as she had promised. Upon rising, he called out ‘Sinmara!’ and she appeared, the chest at her feet.”

“So Surtr gained Lævateinn?” 

“No,” Angrboða replied quietly, her hand resting on the back of Loki’s neck. “Sinmara pushed _him_ to the ground and rode him. Their mating moved the valleys and made glaciers crumble; when Surtr erupted, so did every mountain of fire within the nine worlds.”

Loki arched an eyebrow. “Impressive,” he murmured, but there was a gleam of amusement in his gaze, and his hand slid down her cool belly.

“It was enough to worry Asgard. Odin knew then and knows now that the children of Surtr will rise behind our father and bring down the Æsir in the time of Ragnarok,” Angrboða intoned. 

“So you are the daughter of Surtr?” It wasn’t so much a question as confirmation.

“I am the first born and only daughter of my fire-father and nightmare mother, little prince,” she murmured. “Created in that first mating, when the inferno of their lust burned hottest. I carry my father’s passion and my mother’s insanity in the very obsidian of my soul.”

Neither spoke for a while. Finally Loki propped himself on one elbow to look down at her, his elegant gaze caught in curiosity. “So we are . . . . opposites. Male to female, ice to fire, anger to lust.”

“And yet linked by stone,” Angrboða finished, bringing a hand up to touch his chest. “The nine worlds stem from Yggdrasil, which in turn grows on stone, my princeling. Stone is eternal, from the smallest fragment to the largest world.”

“Seed,” Loki bent to breathe against her lips, “does not grow in stone.”

“Yours shall,” Angrboða laughed softly. “Yours shall.”

He pulled her to him, rolling with her over the fur, his actions rougher now as Loki nipped his way from her collarbones to the hot peaks of her nipples, his teeth worrying their hardness. Angrboða slid her fingers through his hair, tugging him closer, urging him on with little gasps of pained pleasure as she slid a leg over his hip.

“Harder,” she purred, “Leave your mark, taste me!” 

Loki did, his white teeth leaving red crescents along the smooth globes of her chest, his lust and banked anger flaring as they wrestled together. Angrboða clawed his shoulders and ribs, enjoying the way he hissed and winced at the pain, and when he shoved her thighs apart, dropping himself heavily on her small frame she gave a breathless laugh of giddy madness and kept fighting, drinking in his growls of fury with her red, red kisses.

Each stroke stoked the heat between her thighs, churning slickly with sweat and musk and the glaze of arousal. Angrboða tensed, well-aware of how close both of them were now, passing through that glorious moment of inevitability. She kissed Loki hard, teeth knocking against his, and hissed into his mouth. “ _Wound_ me. _Hate_ me, son of ice!” 

Grunting, he scraped his cheek along hers and bit her, just under her ear, along the smooth muscle of her throat; the pain knifed through Angrboða, igniting her climax, which rushed through her like a wild ocean wave. She shook, dark blood rolling down her shoulder, her arms and legs wrapped around Loki like vines. He gave a hoarse bellow that was muffled in her hair, and drove himself deeply as he came, his seed searing inside her. 

Breathless, neither of them spoke for a while, lying entangled amid the slick and sweat of their coupling. Angrboða felt the trickle of her blood begin to slow. After a while Loki raised his head to nuzzle her, and she felt his kiss linger on the wetness there.

She smiled into the dark.

*** 

“I am a prince, not a kitchen drudge,” came Loki’s flat statement. He looked at the list again, frowning as Angrboða wrapped herself in a cloak of hawk feathers and took a steaming mug from one of the badgers. She sipped it and handed it back, then met Loki’s gaze.

“You _are_ a prince, a _clever_ prince and you _will_ bring these things back to me before night falls,” she told him gently. “Treat it as a challenge to your cleverness, son of Laufey. Two may be bought, but the other two will require different methods of procurement, and all are necessary.”

“Where are _you_ going?” this time his tone held both curiosity and a hint of possessiveness. Angrboða stared at Loki for a moment, her eyes flickering with a warning hint of inner flame.

“I have a barter of my own to complete, the final element for my elixir,” she told him. “Good luck to you in your hunting, father of my brood, since you will surely need it.”

“What if I fail? Will I be punished?” 

Angrboða finished tucking the feathers around herself. “Yes.”

“That’s not fair,” Loki protested. “I didn’t _ask_ for this quest.”

“No,” came her agreement. “It is not and you did not, however I need those items and you have the Singasteinn. Do not fail me.”

With that Angrboða strode out of her hall and to the stables, where her sleigh stood waiting. She climbed in, took the reins and let the polar bears begin their run. It took effort not to look back and see if Loki was watching; Angrboða pushed thoughts of him away and concentrated on steering the bears through the rough track in the woods as the wind ruffled the feathers she wore.

Behind her, grey shadows ran, a phalanx of fanged guards.


End file.
